


A Night at the Gnawed Noble

by felcraw



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: City Elf Origin, Crimson Oars, Denerim, F/M, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Racism in Thedas, Revenge, Slightly Smutty, The Gnawed Noble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felcraw/pseuds/felcraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair and Rapheline, the unapologetically angry city elf Duncan recruited from Denerim's alienage, share a drink or three at the swankiest tavern around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night at the Gnawed Noble

Pints tinkled as they clashed, sloshing watered-down ale across tabletops that hadn’t seen a clean rag all night. Raucous laughter rang out across the room, punctuating the steady buzz of the patrons. The Gnawed Noble was raking in the coin this night; the drink was a fine distraction from the rumors that darkspawn had razed Lothering.

He’d been brought up in the Chantry, true, but Alistair was no stranger to a bustling tavern. His time with the Wardens had made sure of that. Catching the waitress’ eye, he held up two fingers. He could see the bottom of his pint through the shallows of his ale; time for a refill.

The young Grey Warden was glad for the warmth of the drink in his belly. It kept his mind off his nerves and loosened his tongue. He wasn't sure if he sounded  _ less _ awkward when armed with a bit of liquid courage, but at least he didn't  _ care  _ as much. He sighed, thirsty for something to deaden his fear.

Grey Wardens were old friends with fear, and they knew how to conquer it. One did not survive the Joining with a cowardly heart. The darkspawn were troubling, indeed, and the reality of Teyrn Loghain’s betrayal loomed closer than was comfortable, especially in Denerim. But it was neither politics nor darkspawn that had Alistair tripping over his words tonight. No, it was something much more terrifying than that.

Rapheline certainly didn't  _ look _ very elfy, elbows on the table, mug of mead clasped firmly in her grip. The points of her ears cut through the dark sheet of her hair, her slanted eyes were a deep and reflective black, and she wasn't necessarily tall, but the likeness faded there. Her curves rivaled those of any healthy farmer’s wife, and her features were softer, less sharp than the other elves he'd encountered. Not that her race mattered. The Wardens tended to accept whatever willing hearts and able hands they could find. But he wasn't deaf to the murmurs, the surprised exclamations, the snorts of derision that had followed in their journey's wake. Alistair gazed into his now-empty stein, wondering how much ale he'd have to consume to meet those comments with her everyday level of scorn.

“Think she's having fun?” The elf Warden gestured subtly toward Morrigan off in a corner alone, scowling and wielding her goblet of wine like a scepter.

“Hmm, well, that would depend, wouldn't it?”

“On?”

“On how many warm bodies are within mocking distance, of course. The snake has to feed.”

She laughed, elbowing his ribs. Instead of taking the seat across from him, she’d slid onto the bench beside him. While doing nothing for his already-awkward conversational skills, the move validated his long-held suspicion that her arms were, indeed, very soft and warm.

“She's not so bad, for a human.”

“You know, you've really come around on us since I met you, Raph. Why, I haven't heard you refer to a noble as ‘human lord’ in at  _ least _ a week.”

“I've decided diplomacy is a less dangerous way to manipulate human fools into doing my bidding.” 

Her matter-of-fact tone made him grin. “Right, right. Psychological torture. A much more noble path. Glad you're on  _ my _ side.”

The waitress appeared, sliding two mugs their way. Alistair passed her a few silvers and eyed the elf sideways, deliberately avoiding her gaze. Time to rip off the bandage.

“Speaking of mind games… Did you really  _ mean _ what you said in camp the other night?”

“That Oghren needs to keep his pants on or I'll return him to the Stone? Yes. With all my heart.”

Alistair chuckled, nervous. “Heh, no. Good point though. No, I meant… what you said to, ah, me.”

She knew what he was talking about. It was after sharing a mug of strong wine with Leliana at the campfire, chattering in low voices and giggling every now and then. “I see how he looks at you,” Leliana had said, a mischievous light in her eyes. “What are you going to do about it?” That had proved a good night, a night where it was easy to forget the taint in her blood and the horde at their heels.

“When I called you handsome?” He ducked his head, cheeks burning bright pink. She took that as a yes. “I did mean that. Your face is quite symmetrical. I find it very pleasing to look at.” His lips quirked into an unwilling smile, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. She pressed on. “And I can only imagine, under all that bulky armor…” He swallowed unexpectedly, choking on his ale and coughing.

“All right, I get it, you're just teasing me. Do my pride a favor and forget I asked, all right?” He washed away a cough with another swallow of ale. Her stomach flipped; she may have pushed it too far. Truth was, she  _ did _ find the Warden handsome. 

It had crept up on her slowly, catching her unaware. She'd begun their journey together bitter, reminding anyone who would listen that she didn't want the burden of the Warden taint, that she'd rather be anywhere else. Even rotting in the arl’s dungeon. Alistair’s easy smiles and endless banter had rankled at first; his blithe acceptance of an elf as a partner and comrade had felt suspicious. She’d been so angry, letting Shianni’s brutal rape fester inside, allowing her hatred for the pig humans that made life in the Alienage hell fill every crack in her emotions. And her companion was right. She’d made no effort to hide her disdain for the shemlen. There was no doubt in her mind that she would have been run through by some noble’s sword by now, had Alistair’s quick charm not diverted their attention.

And while Leliana’s wine had emboldened her, it wasn't his looks that had drawn her in. Though that strong jawline and those puppydog eyes certainly didn't hurt his cause.

What swept her up were the little things. The way his words would trip over one another when he was unsure. His capacity to tell a joke even after a massacre. The way the big, strong Warden’s cheeks brightened when paid a compliment. How he would roar in battle to draw attention from her whirling daggers, how his shield had caught so many blows meant for her skull. The way his eyes went soft and wet when he spoke of Duncan.

She felt a fluttering in her belly again and rolled her eyes inwardly. She'd never known how to be vulnerable without being awkward, so she didn't bother trying. Sporting half a shy grin, Rapheline hefted his arm over her head and around her shoulders, wedging herself close. Now it was her turn to stare into a mug as Alistair started, surprised.

“I'm not teasing you, Alistair. Promise.” A moment of rare candor. His arm, at first heavy and stiff, relaxed after her words, melting along the line of her shoulders. 

Something inside her thrilled; she'd battled for weeks now with how much she liked feeling  _ protected. _ The elf had always been the one to defend and to shelter, just like her mother. She felt a moment of pity, unable to imagine Cyrion as anything other than vulnerable.

“I, ah, well. Ahem. This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, his words remarkably coherent despite the hornet’s nest buzzing in his head. “Can't say I know exactly what I did to deserve this, but I swear it was on purpose.”

Rapheline risked a glance up; her expression was sheepish, almost guilty, and it tugged at something in Alistair’s chest. He was so used to seeing those black eyes swirling with rage, with scorn, and when she thought herself alone, with some unspoken pain. To see them so round and clear, with just a hint of insecurity… 

“You're beautiful, you know.” The apples of her cheeks reddened. Oh, he  _ was _ going to enjoy this. It was rare for him to have the upper hand with the sardonic elf. “Especially with mead dribbling down your chin.” She scowled and swiped at her face with a sleeve. Alistair grinned.

His hand found hers beneath the table and he leaned close, murmuring. She shivered; it had been several days since they'd had a chance to relax, and his beard stubble scratched lightly against her temple. She was having trouble focusing on his words, but they were low and they stoked the embers glowing deep in her abdomen. He wasn't even stammering. She felt his smile and leaned her cheek against his. The mead sparkling in her belly was doing its job nicely, she noted.

It was taking an incredible amount of effort to maintain his cool, but so far Alistair was on a roll. She was very warm and folded snugly against him. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to cease its hammering. For once in his life, he was actually making someone  _ else _ nervous. 

And then she went and ruined it all by kissing him.

He was mid-sentence when her lips touched his, soft all over and sharp where they had chapped. A flash of anxiety suddenly seared him. The sheltered orphan growing up in the Chantry never had the chance to practice the art of girl-kissing. Maker’s breath, what if he was doing it wrong?

But her lead had always been easy to follow, and this was no exception. He parted his lips slightly as her tongue teased them open. The kiss was long and slow and deep, and without willing it his hand found the curve of her face, cupping it gently.

They broke and locked eyes, her elven irises flashing with the firelight. She gave him the half-smirk she was known for. Usually it meant she’d played some grand trick on him, but he suspected this time it might be genuine.

“If I'd known that was the outcome, I would have done… whatever it is I did earlier. On purpose, of course. Very calculated."

She opened her mouth to reply, but a grating shout cut her off.

“Oy, Warden! Have a care dallying with the knife-ears.”

Alistair's eyebrow raised and he turned, facing the speaker. It was a mercenary, face ruddy and pocked from a lifetime of exposure and battle, hair limp and greasy, ale gut speaking volumes about his employability. “Excuse me?”

The mercenary grinned. There were a few grimy holes where a tooth should have been. “The knife-ears, ser. Just some friendly advice, if you don’t mind. Their wenches are nice to look at, they are, and I know a man you can pay to have ‘em strung up all harmless-like, if you're set on takin’ one. But they're more trouble’n they're worth. You don't want to end up like poor Vaughan Kendalls.”

Alistair winced as the elf’s fingers dug into his thigh. “Surely you didn't just imply that I ought to abandon my companion here, alone and in the company of, er, fine, upstanding citizens like yourself, seek out a shady alley-dweller, and pay him to rape a kidnapped girl?”

“Naw, ‘course not. Can't rape an elf.”

Rapheline was staring hard at the table, hand gripping his leg ever tighter. Where moments ago his belly had been afire with drink and something akin to butterflies, now he felt a nauseating rage. Alistair had always known of the widespread racism against elves, but he'd never felt it more keenly than now. He shoved the table back and stood, clenching his fists.

“I'll give you one last chance. Tell me you didn't just say what I think you said. I'd hate to make a mess of this nice clean floor. Blood is  _ so _ hard to get out of the rug, you know.” The Warden’s hand came to rest lightly on his sword hilt. His tone was light, but his eyes were stone.

“I said it once and I'll say it again. You can't rape an elf. Got a whole troop of my boys here and not one of ‘em’s ever managed to do it. Not for lack of tryin’, neither.” He started to laugh, hacking a phlegmy cough with every other breath.

A metallic whisper punctuated the end of the mercenary’s sentence as Alistair drew steel. The laughter ended abruptly.

“Oh, you want to play it that way, hey?” The man spat, waving an arm. “Oy, Oars! To me!” His eyes squinted at the Warden. “You'll not see dawn on the morrow, friend, whether it's by my sword or by that pointy whore’s filthy daggers.”

“Ah. Well, then. It would seem your parents forgot to raise you with any sense of decency. What a shame. You’re in luck, though. I’m a rather accomplished teacher.” Alistair’s words were as sharp as the blade he steadied at the mercenary. “Here’s your first lesson. It’s about respect. For Grey Wardens, for elves, and for women.”

Without missing a beat, the Crimson Oars mercenary company had formed a rough mob around their table. From her dark corner, Morrigan caught Alistair’s eye, her brow and wine goblet raised. He sighed and inclined his head, loathe to accept the witch’s help. It wouldn't be a terribly fun fight, but there was no doubt they'd win. For all that Oghren’s axe was down for the count with its owner behind the bar, they had strength and experience on their side. Still, he moved in front of Rapheline. 

“Don't worry, ser hero, we won't harm your little girl. She's safe from our blades,” the mercenary growled, putting a strange emphasis on  _ blades _ . He grinned again, matte yellow teeth reflecting no light. “Once she's had a taste of our Oars, the sweet little slut won't even mourn your death.”

Alistair gritted his teeth, wishing the man would just shut up. “What terribly uninspired last words,” he remarked, and in one motion brought his sword back. Across the room, the forest witch sighed heavily, setting down her wine and reaching for her staff. Almost as one, the mercenaries hefted their weapons, a great draft of unwashed body odor hitting the Warden’s nose as they exposed their underarms.

_ Thunk. _

A long dagger sprouted from the polished tabletop that now leaned haphazardly against the opposite bench, buried inches deep into the wood. The knuckles wrapping its hilt were white, tendons straining against skin. The elven Warden stood, yanking the dagger free with a flick of her wrist.

“Think you're tough, eh, knife-ear?” The mercenary leaned closer. Alistair could smell the sourness of his breath. He'd never wanted to punch somebody more than he did right then. The man’s hand went to his belt, loosening the buckle. “Looks like you need to learn your place, little bitch.”

It all happened at once. The mercenary lunged forward, grabbing Rapheline’s shoulder and forcing her down against the leaning tabletop, the momentum of his weight knocking her off balance. A shout from the bartender called for the city guard, but in vain. The guard had avoided the Noble ever since the Crimson Oars had taken up their unwelcome residence. Alistair roared something unintelligible, swinging his blade toward the attacker’s midriff, but a flail from another mercenary caught his sword arm, sending his sweep awry. Weapons and fists flew wildly in the limited space of the tavern’s main room, though strangely, many of them missed their target or slipped unexpectedly from the Oars’ grasp. Morrigan watched from her corner, seemingly bored by it all, though her mouth moved imperceptibly.

A hoarse scream rent the air, jarring the melee to a halt. An Oars mercenary jabbed a shaking finger past Alistair, mouth working but issuing no sound. A dozen pairs of rounded eyes shone like a beacon to a point behind him. Giving the man in his grasp a final disgusted look, Alistair turned to see what was so captivating.

Rapheline leaned against the tabletop, fingers entangled in the mercenary leader’s greasy hair, pulling his head back against her shoulder. A long, shallow cut adorned the side of his exposed neck. Blood spurted in rhythmic pulses onto her collarbone. It ran like a river down her breast, slick and red. She looked like a blood mage’s demon summons gone horribly awry. The mercenary struggled weakly.

“I haven't harmed your voice box, human. Where do I find your alley-friend, the man who deals in elven flesh?” Her voice was low and almost musical. Alistair had never seen her like this. He sought Morrigan’s gaze, but she didn't meet it, just looked upon the scene with the hint of an approving smile curving her lips.

A gurgle burst from his mouth with a spray of red spittle. It sounded defiant, insofar as gurgles could sound defiant.

“Tell me and I'll spare your life,” she said. It was almost a purr. Alistair might have been turned on, if he wasn't utterly horrified.

“B-back alley, two streets down from the Pearl,” the man gasped. “Gurt’s ‘is name. B-bald. Fat.” Rapheline’s hand, holding her dagger to his throat as though it were no more than a butter knife, stroked his neck gently, like he was just some wounded mabari hound.

“Good boy. That wasn't so hard,” she murmured. Louder, she addressed the room. “Who knows who I am?” Silence. “Anyone?”

“You're a fucking knife-eared bitch!” came a scream from the back of the crowd. She frowned and shook her head like some mildly disappointed mother.

“She's the one killed the arl’s son,” shook the voice of the pointing mercenary. “The one killed all the guards, and his noble friends, to boot.”

“That's right,” she said approvingly. “I slit Vaughan Kendall’s belly open like the worthless spring nuglet he was. Except I like nugs. And they don't kidnap and rape elves.” Her eyes scanned the crowd. “Do you want to see what happens to humans that treat elves like objects, to be used and thrown on the rubbish heap?”

A few heads wobbled no, but for the most part the crowd was still. She took it as an affirmative. “They're put down, like any dangerous beast.” The butter knife in her had became a dagger once more. She slid it fluidly across the mercenary’s neck. His eyes goggled for a moment before rolling back into his skull. She released his body. It slumped to the floor, unbuckled belt clattering against the stone.

“You said you would spare him!” The unidentified screamer again. Rapheline shrugged.

“We all say things we don't mean from time to time.” She brought a wrist to her cheek, vainly wiping at the blood. “Remember Vaughan the next time you feel like abusing an elf. Remember your captain here. Remember me.”

It was as though the group had been pulled taut and suddenly released. With her words they broke, stumbling for the exit. As the last of the Crimson Oars disappeared through the doorway, the elf Warden’s knees buckled. Alistair was at her side in a moment, arm encircling her waist.

“A little messier than I would have preferred, but impressive nonetheless,” he said. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and, with a moment’s hesitation, drew it across her breastbone, sopping up only a fraction of the blood that coated her skin. It was near silent in the tavern now, most of the guests having fled during the melee or retreated to the safety of their rooms. From the back of the tavern a slow clap sounded, accompanied by a woman’s husky belly laugh.

“Bravo, my dear! Bravo!” The proprietress of the Gnawed Noble, Edwina, picked her way across the room, lifting her skirts and avoiding the deeper puddles of blood. “It's been too long since we’ve had a proper brawl in this place. Damned gelded nobles and their ‘gentlemen’s duels.’ But the execution of a would-be rapist? Oh, it’s more than I hoped for!”

Rapheline eyed her tiredly. “You're… pleased?”

Edwina chortled again. “Pleased as punch, girl. I've offered good coin to almost every sellsword in Denerim to rid my tavern of those mongrels, and no one’s had the stones to take it.” She pulled a pouch from the depths of her ample bosom, holding it out to the Wardens. It clinked and hung low in the air, heavy with coin. Rapheline stared at it, then shook her head.

“I can't. I don't kill for coin,” she said. Her voice was quiet now. If Alistair didn't know better, he might even think she sounded bashful.

The woman clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Have it your way, then. You don't have to tell me twice to keep my sovereigns to myself,” Edwina said, tucking the pouch between her breasts once more. She looked pointedly at the elf’s chest and legs, sticky with drying blood. “At least stay the night, free of charge. I'll have my girls draw up a hot bath for you. And don't tell me no, it's quite clear you need it.”

Rapheline nodded gratefully. “Come along, then. And do try to avoid dripping on the rugs. They're imported from Val Royeaux and cost a pretty copper to replace.”

The elf spun back to Alistair and caught his hand. “Come with me,” she pleaded. The black of her eyes seemed endlessly deep. Despite the gore decorating her body, all he could remember was the press of her lips against his, the yield of her breasts against his chest, the evening’s possibilities stolen right out from under them.

“To… your… bath?” Whatever finesse he'd mastered in the last two hours had fled. A ghost of a smile passed across her face, but Rapheline’s gaze was unreadable.

“No, you cad. That will be disgusting enough without you there.” Raph’s eyes twinkled a moment, softening the edge of her words. Her fingers tightened around his own, ever so slightly. “To my room. I just… would rather not be alone, tonight.”

There was a strange waver to her voice he'd never heard before. She was holding back tears, he realized. In all their travels together, Alistair had never seen her cry. “Of course I'll come. Call for me once you're finished.” On a moment’s whim he pulled her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to its back, ignoring the flecks of blood. She flushed red as a beet and shot him a wide-eyed glance before whirling to follow Edwina, clutching her hand like she'd been branded.

* * *

 

“Alistair?”

It felt like an eternity waiting for her to finish with that thrice-damned bath. There'd been so much blood, it might as well have taken that long; Alistair had seen the serving girls come back with fresh water half a dozen times before Rapheline finally poked her head around the doorframe.

“At your service, my lady. As always. Gee, maybe I should find a hobby.” She smiled with relief to see him leaning against the opposite wall, opening the door more widely. For a moment Alistair's heart leapt into his throat. She wore a white linen nightdress that was clearly on loan from the hostess; nothing could stay so bright on their bloody, filthy travels. It was not immodest garb, but neither did it leave much to the imagination. Illuminated from behind, the roundness of her hips and the curved space between her thighs were silhouetted perfectly, and her nipples were dark behind the thin fabric. He swallowed once, hard.

Rapheline’s eyes narrowed, following his gaze. “Cad,” she said again, but there was no sting in her words. He moved past her into the room, wanting nothing more badly than to map the curve of her hip with his palms. But Alistair was raised in the Chantry. He could go to impressive—and unhealthy—lengths to repress pleasurable urges.

She closed the door softly behind him, the lock fastening with a crisp  _ click.  _ Alistair surveyed the room. Though the furniture was fine and ornate paintings of pastoral Ferelden adorned the walls, it was on the smaller side. Rapheline clambered onto the bed, leaning back into the fat pillows and drawing her knees to her chest. “Sit by me?”

He obliged with a nod, not trusting the words that might escape from his mouth. The cushioned mattress and fluffy pillows felt alien. It had been years since he'd slept on anything more comfortable than a soldier’s cot or a bedroll. Suddenly he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts; he was assuming he'd be sleeping there tonight.

“Is everything all right?” Rapheline looked at him worriedly, brows knitting together. Her skin was pink and freshly scrubbed, and she exuded a sweet, citrusy scent. It was so strange to see the elf unsure, to sense her insecurity. Her momentary weakness emboldened him, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. There—that felt right, somehow.

“Just waiting for the lightning to strike, as the sisters always warned would happen if I ever visited a woman’s room alone.” He peered around the room, searching. “Or perhaps Andraste herself shall appear to waggle a finger at me?”

Rapheline smiled but didn't laugh. The rapid rise and fall of her shoulders told him she was breathing fast. Nervous, perhaps. Alistair could hardly believe he was making  _ her  _ nervous, but somehow it gave him courage. “I'd heard about what befell the old arl’s son. I should have known my little Raph was the rogue behind the elven rebellion in Denerim.”

“Don't sound too proud. I did more harm than good in the end.” She wouldn't look at him, but he didn't mind so much. Her downturned lashes seemed uncharacteristically demure, and she was playing with his hand, lightly tracing the lines on his palm. Alistair shifted his legs to better conceal how much he was enjoying it. She continued. “I tried to visit the Alienage today. My father lives there, you know, and my cousins. I thought I'd check on them, show them... what I've made of myself. But it's locked up tight. The guards aren't letting anyone through, and I—” A catch in her throat stopped her. Alistair pulled her closer and she curled into him, hiding her face against his chest. “I just want to make sure Shianni is okay. She… she's my cousin, the one the arl’s son hurt. And Soris. He killed so many guards, but Duncan didn't conscript  _ him _ . Is he jailed?” She swallowed. “Hung?”

The two Grey Wardens were silent a moment, Rapheline lost in her moment of grief, Alistair suddenly wracked with guilt. She'd been carrying the burden of not knowing for so long, suffering in relative silence, while he made his jokes and blithely ignored the plight of a people he rarely thought about. Unsure of what to do, he turned to his old friend on the battlefield: instinct.

Cradling her cheek, Alistair closed his eyes and placed a soft kiss on her temple, lingering long. He tilted her chin up slightly, forcing her eyes to meet his. More than anything, he needed to reassure her, to find a way to keep the deluge threatening to spill from her alien black eyes at bay.

“I'm so sorry, love,” he said, voice low. “I promise you, we will find a way into the Alienage. We’ll take care of your family, whatever they may need. And we will violently murder  _ anyone _ who even so much as thinks that vile phrase, ‘knife-ear.’”

She laughed then, ignoring the stray tear that found its way down her cheek, and wrapped her arms around his neck. The embrace was unexpected, but he found himself responding smoothly, arms wrapping her waist and holding her very warm body close against his. Rapheline was practically on top of him and he was keenly aware of her breasts pressed against his sternum, of the heartbeat he could feel pulsing between them, unsure exactly whose it was. This time, he moved first; Alistair pulled her face close and kissed her, his tongue boldly exploring her own. He broke and moved to her neck, forging a trail of soft, wet kisses from collarbone to earlobe. A whimper escaped her lips. It drove him mad and he attacked with renewed passion, one hand sunk deep into her dark tresses, the other anchored at the small of her back, keeping her pressed as close upon him as possible.

Somehow, in their impassioned tussle, he'd managed to maneuver on top of her. Rapheline lay beneath him, arms arranged artfully behind her head, chest heaving slowly as she gazed upward at him. Alistair leaned on one elbow resting beside her face, careful to avoid pulling the dark locks that tumbled across the pillows. He smoothed a few stray strands from her face, tracing her browbone, her cheekbone, her lips. His eyes traveled southward, drawn by the rhythmic motion of her breasts. She was breathing hard. Alistair took one last moment to remember the grating lessons from the Chantry sisters on chastity and propriety, then cast them away. 

His hand strayed to her ribs and rested there. He was obviously deciding something. Rapheline wished he'd hurry up; the waiting was excruciating, sweetly so. A thumb brushed the underside of her breast, quick, tentative; she whimpered again, and this time it was a plea. She must have sounded convincing, for Alistair reached to the neck of her nightdress and pulled it low, tearing it in his endearingly clumsy eagerness. The look of shock on his face made her cackle.

“Was that expensive?” He sounded guilty.

“I hope so.” In a swift motion she ripped the linen further, exposing the full globe of her breast. Alistair stared in silent wonder, hand hovering close but not yet touching her, reverent.

“Maker,” he breathed. “What did I ever do to deserve a woman like you?”

“Whatever it was, I'm sure it was on purpose,” she teased, grinning.

Alistair laughed. “See, this is why you're my favorite.” He lowered his hand, gently cupping her breast, feeling her shiver beneath his touch. The lull in activity had sapped a bit of their blind urgency, though; Alistair was suddenly very aware of his bare chest, of her eyes on him, of the round softness under his fingers. He cleared his throat. “Is this, um, weird at all, for you?”

She opened her mouth to reply, closed it, opened it again, then hummed. “Maybe we’re taking this a little fast,” she conceded, grimacing slightly. Alistair went to pull his hand back but she grabbed his wrist, grip like a vise. “Don't you dare,” she growled, firelight playing in her black irises.

Alistair hesitated, unsure. “When do you want me to leave?” He wasn't certain exactly which answer he hoped for.

“I don't,” she replied simply, turning on her side and tucking herself into the curve of his embrace. “Sleep here tonight. I, um…” She trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. “I like it when you, um, hold me. Makes me feel safe.”

A warmth spread through Alistair’s chest. For all that he preferred to follow and leave the hard decisions to someone else, he was moved that his companion seemed to need him. Indeed, though her capability in battle was beyond compare, he often felt the urge to protect her. His shield bore many dents intended for the body he now held tightly against his own.

Alistair pulled her close, breathing deep the scent of her hair, perfumed with campfire smoke and, more faintly, clean soap. None of the day’s events had made much sense, but if they led to a comfortable bed and this woman in his arms, he wasn’t about to complain. 

Pleasant as it was, the contentment was making him sleepy. Rapheline yawned; it had been a tiring evening, in several ways. He smiled into her hair and sighed long. “We should really get into tavern brawls more often.”


End file.
